On Kurt Vonnegut

Within my mind is a well-appointed sitting room. Within that sitting room is a stone fireplace full of ashes. The fireplace has been cold for five years. Near the fireplace are two worn leather chairs covered in dust. Each chair has its own mahogany side table. On both tables are empty whiskey snifters. One table includes an ashtray full to the brim with Pall Mall butts.

It was in this room that I was introduced to, knew, and eventually lost my favorite author: Kurt Vonnegut. Over the course of 11 years, as I read every piece of his published fiction and nonfiction, he and I met in this room. The fire crackled and warmed us. Kurt's cigarette smoke filled the air. We sipped fine whiskey during the pauses in his stories. Most importantly, I intently listened to every word that came out of his mouth.

No matter the novel, short story, or essay I was reading, the Kurt I imagined was always in his early 60s: wizened by time but still spry. His voice punctuated by the occasional smoker's cough, he was passing onto me the universe's holiest wisdom.

On a pilgrimage to Schlachthof 5, October 2016

That came to an end in 2012, when I finished the last chapter of Player Piano. It was a deliberate decision to read his first novel last. It seemed appropriate. Even though I knew it was coming, the moment that I finished that last page...it was as if he vanished from the place he had held so long. The fire flickered out, the glasses emptied on their own, and the room has been abandoned ever since.

I miss you, Kurt.